


your smile's a hollowpoint bullet (and you can assassinate me any day)

by girl0nfire



Series: 30 Day OTP Challenge: October 2012 [4]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: F/M, that one where assassins go on a date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Natasha and James will go on a date where no weapons are discharged.  ...One day.  For the 30 Day OTP Challenge, prompt "on a date".</p>
            </blockquote>





	your smile's a hollowpoint bullet (and you can assassinate me any day)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4 of the [30 Day OTP Challenge](http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge) on Tumblr. Best paired with ["Bulletproof Heart"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--0XPGid7JY) by My Chemical Romance and ["Love and War (11-11-46)"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idiaqWBzulQ) by Rilo Kiley.

James slips a finger underneath his collar to tug it away from his neck, self-conscious and more than a little uncomfortable. His bow tie is too tight, and the dark wool of his tuxedo jacket pulls between his shoulder blades as he leans his elbows onto the white tablecloth in front of him. He reaches for his drink, swirling the last bit of whiskey around the bottom and watching the light from the candle on the table refract through the heavy crystal and ice, throwing amber and gold sparks through the honey-colored liquid. 

Lifting the glass, he tips back the last bit of alcohol and surveys the room. James feels very out-of-place, surrounded by women in fur coats hanging off of balding men in expensive suits, white-jacketed waiters darting through the crowd carrying trays down the narrow spaces in between the tables. Sitting alone at a two-top, James can’t help but feel like he’s sitting under a spotlight, and he’d only ordered a drink because he wanted the waiters to stop shooting him pitying glances. He wonders where Natasha is.

He’s just setting his glass down again, the bottom making a dull _thud_ against the fabric of the tablecloth, when he feels a hand light on his shoulder. 

James doesn’t have to turn to know who it is, and as Natasha slides her hand down the lapel of his jacket, James reaches up to catch it in one of his. Holding it gently, he stands to greet her, but his welcome dies in his throat when he gets a look at what she’s wearing. James blinks, doing a double-take and unashamedly letting his eyes travel up Natasha’s body with an appreciative whistle. 

She’s dressed in dark green silk, the halter neckline of the gown baring her shoulders and giving way to a low curve at her back. The hem of the dress reaches nearly to the floor, save for a slit along Natasha’s side that rises almost to her hip. The effect of the deep green against her pale skin is almost effervescent, and well…

 _Goddamn_.

James abandons his plan to simply press a kiss to Natasha’s hand and instead pulls her closer, brushing a soft kiss on her cheek. Hell, it’s not very often that they get a night out, even if it is mixing business with pleasure, so he might as well enjoy himself. Sliding his hands lightly over Natasha’s hips, the fabric rippling underneath his palms like water, James brushes his fingertips along the dip of silk at her back. He leans down to whisper in her ear.

“You look _incredible_.”

He brings one hand up to tug at his collar again, but Natasha bats it away, straightening his bow tie gently before resting her hands on his shoulders. She gazes up at him, and he sees that the deep color of her dress has darkened the green in her eyes, as well.

“So do you… You _almost_ have me convinced you don’t hate it.”

Natasha gives him a small smile, dropping her hands before she slips from his hold and circles the table to sit. He scrambles behind her to pull out her chair, and once she’s seated, he can’t quite suppress his urge to press another kiss to her bare shoulder before he returns to his own chair. Signaling the waiter, James orders their drinks – another whiskey for himself, and a glass of Cabernet for Natasha – before he reaches for one of the dark leather menus that’s resting on the table between them.

Natasha places a hand on top of his, stilling his movement, and begins to speak. Her voice is low, barely audible over the murmurs of the other patrons and the clinking of glasses and silverware, and James has to lean forward a bit to catch her words.

“Have you seen him, yet?”

 _Him_ is Jamaal Al Fahri, an Egyptian arms dealer who’s gotten onto SHIELD’s radar with a recent series of high-volume chemical weapons purchases. Based on the intel Sitwell had passed on, Al Fahri’s meeting a fellow dealer tonight to discuss another acquisition. SHIELD wants James and Natasha to run surveillance on his rendezvous.

Agent Barton had swept the restaurant earlier, and he is currently concealed somewhere in the rafters of the restaurant as their eyes up above.

“I haven’t. Clint got anything?”

Natasha twines her fingers in his, a quick shake of her head his only answer, and settles back in her seat. She takes a sip from her wine glass before placing it gently onto the table again, and her lipstick leaves a perfect blood-red crescent on the rim. She pulls her hand from James’, quirking an eyebrow at him before gazing upward, and that’s his cue to put in the earpiece she’s left in his palm.

“Lookin’ good, Barnes.” Clint’s voice fills James’ ear almost immediately, and he can tell from Natasha’s stifled chuckle that he’s in hers, too. “You’d make a damn fine penguin.”

James can hear Clint’s self-satisfied smirk even if he can’t see it, and he casts his eyes up toward the ceiling as well, looking for where the agent’s perched.

“Don’t bother. You’ll never see me.”

Tracking his gaze along the finely carved sconces above them for another moment, James makes a face in what he hopes is Clint’s direction before returning his attentions to Natasha, who’s busy scanning the patrons surrounding them for any sight of Al Fahri.

They continue casing the dining room, making small talk and sipping their drinks, and it’s not long before Clint’s voice crackles over the comm again.

“On your seven, Tash.”

Natasha turns, slowly, following James’ gaze ahead just in time to see Al Fahri and his entourage being seated in one of the large, burgundy-leather booths near the back of the restaurant. The dealer isn’t exactly an intimidating figure - short and slim, with a wisp of a goatee on his chin, he’s dressed neatly but not extravagantly in a dark suit and a deep red shirt. He may not be physically impressive, but James can tell from the way he carries himself as we walks that he’s armed. And he’s not alone; two bodyguards slide into the booth across from him, another standing at Al Fahri’s left, blocking him from view.

Turning back toward James, Natasha gives a small nod just as Clint’s voice crackles into James’ ear again.

“It’s showtime, kids.”

Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, James pulls out a few bills, leaving them on the table for their drinks before he pushes back from the table. Natasha rises gracefully from her own seat, gathering the hem of her gown in two fingers to help ease her movement.

“If you’ll follow me, darling,” she purrs, offering him her hand and leading him toward the lobby of the restaurant. Before they reach the front door, Natasha guides them to the left, leading James down the corridor that leads toward the kitchen. She stops nearly at the end and looks left and right before ducking into a small storage pantry.

As James flips the light switch, flooding the cramped space with dim light, Natasha retrieves a silver briefcase and two black bags from where they’d been hidden under a pile of dirty aprons. As he watches, she folds into a crouch, retrieving a small key from the neckline of her dress and unlocking the case.

She starts pulling out connection wires and antennas, bracing a small keyboard across her knees. James can hear Clint walking her through the wireless surveillance set-up over the comm link, and it’s only a few seconds before the screen built into the lid of the case begins to glow. Natasha types in a series of commands, and when she hits enter, they’re rewarded with a black-and-white video feed of Jamaal Al Fahri’s booth.

As Natasha fiddles with another set of wires, James takes the opportunity to shuck off his tuxedo jacket. He tosses it into the corner of the pantry, where it’s soon joined by his cufflinks as he rolls up his sleeves. Tugging the bow tie undone, he leaves the tails to hang down before he slips open a few of the buttons of his dress shirt, just enough room to reach for his shoulder holster and retrieve his sidearm.

Reaching into one of the black bags at Natasha’s side, he pulls out two spare clips and pockets them. He wonders, briefly, _where_ Natasha’s weapon is, but she interrupts him before the thought can get too interesting.

“James, look.” She’s pointing at the screen, the feed showing another man being seated at Al Fahri’s table.

She presses a hand up to her ear. “Clint, any idea who that is?”

“No idea, Tasha. Got my eye on him, though.”

“So do we.” 

Natasha drops her hand and straightens up, keeping one eye on the surveillance screen as she pulls the slit of her dress aside, revealing the gun strapped to her thigh.  


As she retrieves the weapon and checks the clip, she looks up at James and arches an eyebrow.

“What? Come on, Natasha… it’s a beautiful dress. If looks could kill and all that.”

Natasha snorts. 

“If looks could kill, James, I wouldn’t have spent nearly an hour trying to figure out how to conceal a Beretta, two extra clips, and the key to the briefcase underneath this stupid thing.” 

“You’re gorgeous.” James replies.

Natasha rolls her eyes at him, but her expression is fond, not frustrated. “You’re ridiculous. Put your eyes back in, we’ve got work to do.” 

James opens his mouth to retort, but Clint’s voice interrupts him.

“You two are gross.” There’s laughter in the archer’s words, but then he pauses. “Are you guys seeing this?”

The two agents crouch in front of the case again, watching as Al Fahri’s companion spreads a stack of photographs across the table. Natasha types in another series of commands, and their feed zooms, pulling the images into focus. They’re photos of various rockets, all US military tech, and James is willing to bet that all of them have recently gone “missing”.

A translation readout runs along the bottom of their screen, and they watch Al Fahri begin to gesture, his rapid-fire Arabic muted as a transcript scrolls along.

>> THIS IS NOT WHAT I WAS PROMISED. YOU HAVE LIED TO ME. YOUR EMPLOYERS MUST LEARN WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO DOUBLE-CROSS JAMAAL AL FAHRI. 

"Oh, _shit_.” Clint’s voice crackles to life, and their security feed must have a lag because it’s a second before James and Natasha see what he’s reacting to. Al Fahri slams his hands against the table, leaning over it to glare at the other dealer, and then all three of Al Fahri’s bodyguards pull guns, three laser sights trained to one point of light on the unfortunate man’s forehead.

A final translation readout appears.

>> PERHAPS THIS SHALL BE A LESSON TO YOUR EMPLOYERS. 

"Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.” Clint’s voice is still coming over their comms as James and Natasha tear out of the pantry and down the hall, weapons raised. They stop at the mouth of the restaurant lobby, and Natasha raises a hand to her ear again.

“Can you take them out, Clint?”

“No can do, Tasha. I can’t get a visual, they’ve moved.”

James ducks his head around the corner, seeing that Al Fahri’s guards have seized the other man and are dragging him out of the booth and toward the kitchens, and he barks into the comm. “You secure the dining room, we’ll cut them off at the kitchen.”

“You got it.”

James just catches sight of Clint sliding down one of the pillars in the center of the dining room before Natasha’s nudging his back, her head jerking back the way they’d come.

Quickly, they retrace their steps, and Natasha rises up to her toes to look through the round window on the kitchen door.

“There.”

Al Fahri’s bodyguards have forced the man to his knees on the white tiles of the kitchen floor, the restaurant staff huddled in the far corner. The largest of the three guards has his weapon trained on the man’s back, and Al Fahri himself stands before him, continuing to speak.

It’s James’ turn to snort. “Really? The guy just tried to double-cross him and Al Fahri’s got what, a goddamned monologue prepared?”

Natasha shakes her head, a barely concealed eye roll following. “Well, let’s shut him down, then. Ready?”

Nodding at her, James flexes his hand along the grip of his gun and shoulders the swinging door open. As soon as they’re inside the kitchen, Al Fahri’s men open fire. Bullets ricochet off the stainless steel ovens that line the wall, forcing James and Natasha to take cover behind a large freezer just inside.

James rests his back against the cold metal while Natasha ducks her head around the corner and starts firing.

“Goddamnit,” Natasha mutters, drawing back and pulling the empty clip from her weapon. 

James reaches into his pocket and hands her one of his spares, and as she clicks it in place, he chuckles.

“You know, one of these days I’m going to take you to a nice place where we _don’t_ round out the evening with gunfire.”

Natasha looks up at him, echoing his laugh. “But you hate these kinds of places.”

“True. Steaks are small.”

She shakes her head at him, shifting out of the way so he can take her place. James turns to fire around the corner of the freezer, taking in the positions of Al Fahri and his men. Their captive has managed to wedge himself beneath one of the prep tables, and he appears to be unharmed. One guard is down, and from the clean shot through his throat, James is certain that’s Natasha’s doing. The two remaining men have stationed themselves near the doors on the other side of the kitchen; the  
same doors that Al Fahri’s just slipped out of.

“Shit.” James turns to look at Natasha. “Al Fahri rabbited. Cover me.” 

She nods, edging out from behind the freezer to fire two more shots at the remaining guards while James runs for the doors. 

“Clint, heads up, Al Fahri’s coming your way.”

“Got it.”

James pushes through the doors without a backward glance, only the sound of two dull thuds telling him that Natasha’s finished the guards behind him. As he enters the dining room again, James finds that it’s nearly empty – Clint must have managed to evacuate most of the patrons. He scans the tables and the bar for the archer, but doesn’t see him or Al Fahri. Pausing near the booth where the dealer had been seated, James gathers the photographs that are still spread across the table and pockets them before raising his weapon again.

“Where are you, you bastard?” James mutters, slowly circling the room. He hears a creak behind him and turns to see Al Fahri emerging from underneath a dining table, a gun trained on James’ chest.

“Drop your –“

The rest of the dealer’s order is lost as he slumps forward, an arrow protruding from the back of his neck. His face pales in the moment before his knees connect with the ground, and he falls face-first onto the patterned carpet.

James looks around for Clint, who emerges from behind a set of heavy curtains at his right. “Damnit, Clint, Sitwell wanted this guy alive. I had it under control.”  
Clint grins at him, yanking the arrow from Al Fahri’s neck and bringing it over to show him. 

“Relax, Barnes. It’s just a tranq. You’ve got your prisoner, he’s just going to be a bit drool-y for a while.” Clint wipes the tip of the arrow on the front of his uniform before replacing it in his quiver. “Besides, I figured if I took the shot, I’d be the one stuck with the haul-in paperwork.”

It takes a moment for James to put it together, but once he realizes that Clint’s just volunteered himself for a night of paperwork to save Natasha and James’ evening, he reaches out to clap the archer on the shoulder.

“Thanks, Clint. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, James. You deserve a night out with your girl. Besides, I figure if you and Tasha get an actual date every so often I might not have to deal with your gross banter over the comms all the time.”

James shrugs, a smug smile creeping across his face as he unbuttons his dress shirt to re-holster his gun. Clint grins at him again before he bends down to take Al Fahri’s pulse. Natasha joins them a moment later, leading the terrified-looking companion along by his collar. She shoves him roughly in James’ direction.

“Sitwell can have this one, too. He didn’t put up much of a fight, though, so he probably doesn’t know anything.”

Clint’s already on his comm calling into SHIELD for cleanup and detainment, but he catches Natasha’s eye and winks, giving her a thumbs up. 

“I’ve got it from here, Tasha. You two get lost.”

James walks toward her as she replaces her weapon, smoothing the front of the gown and tugging the neckline back into symmetry. He runs a hand through his hair.

“I’d hate to waste that dress.”

She looks up at him, a few waves of her hair falling loose from the knot atop her head and tumbling over her forehead.

“I’m starved.”

Smiling, James offers Natasha his hand, and she steps gingerly over Al Fahri’s paralyzed body. A mumbled “whoops” escapes her as the heel of her shoe grinds between the dealer’s shoulder blades.

The fabric of the gown swishes as she walks, and she slips her hand into his, squeezing gently.

“You know, there’s another place like this one a bit down Broadway. And I’ve heard their steaks are _huge_.”


End file.
